Waltzing's for Dreamers
by UA
Summary: "I thought it was a one night stand...and now we're married..." What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas right? Wrong. What starts as a marriage of convenience morphs into something very real. Carol and Daryl and Sophia deal with the fallout. Fluff and angst in almost equal measures. Non-linear narrative. Multiple pairings.
1. I thought it was a one night stand

**Title**: Waltzing's for Dreamers

**Rating: **PG-13? Not really, but I'm just playing it safe here, lol. M overall, though.

**Warnings: **Adult language. Suggestion of past sexual situations.

**Characters/Pairings: **Carol/Daryl. Mention of Merle Dixon.

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**Waltzing's for Dreamers**

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**_How it all began. Aka, the morning after the night before. _**

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_He wakes with a skull-pounding hangover, a mouthful of russet curls, his dick nestled up all snug and hopeful against a world class ass, and he groans. Freezes. "The hell?" _

_"_Finally_. You're awake. Think you can let go of my boob now?" _

_Slowly, he obeys. Sits up. Takes everything in. The bright lights of Vegas are muted beneath a sun baked sky, a pair of jewel blue eyes are staring at him like he has all the answers, and _shit_. "S'that a ring?" He's wearing one, too. "Did we?" _

_"I thought it was a one-night stand…and now we're married…" _

Fuckin' Merle_. _

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	2. Really ain't that complicated

**Title**: Waltzing's for Dreamers

**Rating: **PG-13.

**Warnings: **Adult language. UST or is it RST? Hahaha.

**Characters/Pairings: **Carol/Daryl. Mentions of Merle Dixon, Andrea Harrison, Michonne, Lori Grimes, Sophia Peletier.

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**_Waltzing's for Dreamers_**

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**_Approximately ten minutes later. _**

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They're on opposite sides of the bed now, as far as they both can get without falling off.

Daryl'd laugh if this whole situation didn't have him turned upside down on his pounding head, but he ain't no dumbass. A Dixon, yes. But a dumbass? That's debatable, negating the whole agreeing to come to Sin City with his Neanderthal brother thing. He's going to have to claim temporary insanity on that one. Besides, he has little reason to believe laughing right now won't land him a knee to the nuts and wouldn't that be just fuckin' great? Like his nuts stand half a chance beneath the pillow he's got hugged to his lap. No, he's definitely not a dumbass. Not in such a vulnerable position anyway. So he keeps his mouth shut and tries not to stare, which ain't really a hardship considering he's having trouble looking in those pretty blue eyes that keep shying away. Wrapped up as she is head to toe in the comforter and half the sheets, Woman's looked anywhere but at him since connecting the all-too-likely dots and Daryl don't blame her. Married? If he didn't currently feel the foreign weight of a cheap wedding band on his finger, he wouldn't believe it either. Then again, he's the one has a jackass for a brother. _Fuckin' Merle. _

"No."

He looks up sharply when Red finally emerges from her catatonic state to mutter that single, mournful syllable. That's what he's calling her in his head because hell if he can remember her actual name or where they even are. Ain't like she's said much of anything else anyway since their rude discovery. "You say something?" he queries softly, the lower register of his voice surprising him even more than her and boy does it surprise her. He can tell by the way that confused little frown knits her delicate brows and the way she shakes her head, just barely, all those red-brown curls shifting and shimmering in the afternoon sunlight spilling in through the suite's wall of naked windows. And _damn_. Maybe he _is_ a dumbass. Now all he can think of is all that pale, pretty skin beneath that butterfly cocoon she's got herself wrapped up in and the pillow in his lap is a piece of absolute, useless shit. His memory about how they landed themselves in this embarrassing predicament might be a little foggy—okay, a lot—but the rest of him seems to be having no such problem. His dick's all _remember_ _when_, perking up with interest at the briefest glimpse of freckles kissing one sexy-sweet shoulder and _Jesus_ _H_. _Christ_. Where the fuck are their clothes? Beamed up on some alien mother ship full of Elvis clones along with his MIA brain? This is Vegas, after all. Where weird shit goes down all the time. Least according to his brother. Fuzzy recollection or not, though, he's pretty sure his brain wasn't the one in the driver's seat last night. _Hell_. He figures it's still on vacation with the way his blood's heating just looking at those pink painted toes peeking out at him, but he doesn't have time to dwell on those thoughts any further because obviously the dam's been broken and the woman wearing his wedding ring is blurting out words at an alarming rate, so fast they come out in one big, near unintelligible jumble.

"Thisisn'thappening. It'snot. I'mgoingtokillAndrea. AndMichonne. Howcouldsheletthishappen? AndjustwherethehellwasLori? I'mgoingto…I'mgoing…ohmygod. Soph…howamIgoingtogetoutofthismess? Ihavetofindmyclothes. Ihavetogetoutofhere. Ihavetofigureouthowsomewaytofixthis. I…what? What are you…oomph."

Those blue eyes widen—with real fright at first, yes, but mostly surprise—when he surges across the bed, pillow forgotten, to clamp a hand over her rambling mouth and her head to toe shiver throws them both into such a state of semi-shock it takes several seconds for Daryl to recover his powers of speech. When he does, his voice is whiskey rough and strained because he's right there with her on the clothes thing. The rest of it, too, but the clothes thing is a little more _pressing_ at the moment. "Fuckin' hell, Woman. Breathe. Just. Take it slow. In and out. In and…_shit_." When her cheeks flush just as cotton candy pink as her toes, he groans and scrabbles one-handed for his discarded pillow. Clutches it to himself and swears up a blue streak that has her biting her lip and then doing the unthinkable barely a minute later: laughing hysterically at the absurdity of it all. Putting a hurting on his male pride that's more fragile than he'd ever openly admit. When she's laughed herself silly and lapsed back into a contemplative silence, he grumbles a question. "Feel better now?" She nods and gifts him with a soft smile that feels like an echo of a midnight memory. "Good. That's good. Listen. M'sorry 'bout just…and…"

"It's okay."

"Didn't mean to manhandle you. Would never…"

"I know. At least, I feel that you wouldn't. Which is ridiculous. Considering I can't even remember your name."

"Daryl. Name's Daryl. What 'bout you?"

"I don't think I could actually kill anybody even if I wanted to. Andrea included."

Daryl smirks, a tiny corner of the mouth blink and you'll miss it expression, but amusement lingers in his gaze. "Not exactly what I meant. But good to know." She laughs again and the stranglehold she has on that fuckin' swaddled quilt loosens enough for a small hand to appear and wave right under his nose, causing him to grunt out a half-laugh of his own.

"_Oh_. I'm Carol. So. Daryl. Tell me how the hell we're going to fix this."

"Really ain't that complicated."

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	3. Close the door

**Title:** Waltzing's for Dreamers

**Rating**: G, for this chapter at least.

**Warnings: **no real warnings, but if you read between the lines, well. ;)

**Characters/Pairings: **Carol Peletier–Carol Mason here. Beth Greene, Eric Raleigh, Eugene Porter, Tobin, Deanna Monroe, Lilly Chambler, Ezekiel. Mentions of Hershel Greene, Maggie Greene, Sophia Peletier, and maybe somebody else. Daryl may not be physically present, but trust me. The man's there.

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**Waltzing's for Dreamers**

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**_Seven years after Vegas. Give or take a few months. Early January. _**

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The bell rings and the kids scatter like rats searching out higher ground, shoving back chairs and gathering up belongings like it's the last day of school before summer instead of an unseasonably warm January day.

The realization that she just equated a bunch of 16-year-olds under her tutelage to vermin makes Carol wince inwardly, but it's been a _day_, one that's still not over, and she gives herself a pass not to feel guilty. There are too many other things that keep her up at night anyway, she rationalizes, her fingertips detouring from the stack of ungraded quizzes on her cluttered desk to the simple picture frame that holds the ultimate place of honor. She picks up the gift briefly. Studies the innocent faces smiling back at her and feels that invisible link from her heart to theirs tighten almost painfully. _Her_ _babies_.

"Uh, Ms. Mason?"

"Hmm?" she hums absently. She's still wearing the remnants of a bittersweet smile on her lips when she sets the frame down. Looks up to see Beth Greene hovering just a few feet away, looking as uncertain and timid as the injured animals her father has made it his life's work to heal.

"Ms. Mason?"

With her blond pigtails and big expressive blue eyes, the girl looks like a lamb walking right into the mouth of the dreaded wolf and Carol suppresses a sigh. Is reminded of the confiscated note that burns a hole in her pocket even now. Rules are rules, though, and she can't play favorites. No matter how much she might want to. Beth's a sweet girl—a girl she's watched grow up in the small town they both call home. A girl full of dreams and romantic notions, and while Carol stopped believing in such things long ago, she'd never think of tainting someone else's optimism. _Still_. "I realize songwriting is its own form of creativity, one that you know I greatly appreciate. _But_." She pauses, gives herself the time to choose her words carefully and kindly.

"Ms. Mason, if you…"

"_But_," Carol continues pointedly. "I'd appreciate it even more if you honed your skills somewhere besides my American literature class."

Beth visibly deflates and her skinny shoulders fold inward. She chews on her lips in indecision, clearly working at gathering the courage to speak again.

Conscious of the advancing hour, Carol starts to gather up the ungraded papers and stuffs them in her messenger bag along with her phone and her keys. She snags the bottle of water she always keeps within arm's reach and offers the girl an additional piece of free advice that elicits a shy flicker of a smile as she herds her toward the open door. "Just not in Mr. Porter's class. Something tells me he takes science very seriously."

"He takes _everything_ seriously. Maggie says God forgot to give him a sense of humor."

Laughter bubbles from her lips before she can help it and she grasps Beth's clammy hand, squeezes it with fond reassurance. Breaks professionalism for a moment to show the girl that she doesn't mean her or anybody else any ill will. Far from it, actually. "Maybe so, but Eugene's a good egg."

"A cracked one." Beth covers her mouth with her hands, in utter disbelief of her own traitorous tongue. With wide eyes, she blurts a panicked apology. "I'm so sorry. That was _so_ mean. I didn't mean to…"

In the interest of saving herself time and the child unnecessary grief, Carol cuts off her rambling with a raised brow and a wave of her hand. "You'll get your note back next week, Beth."

"But Ms. Mason. That'll be too late."

Glancing down the emptied hallway, spying Eric lurking in the staff lounge doorway and tapping the face of his watch, Carol firms up her resolve. "Next week. If you'll excuse me."

"Next week," Beth parrots despondently.

"Beth."

The girl's slight shoulders shrug off her concern. "You don't want to be late."

"It's a pretty day. Why don't you…" Carol trails off.

"Yeah. I'll just…I'll just go."

One last half-hearted tug of her backpack onto her shoulders and the girl leaves her and Carol's hustling down the hall, the last one inside the lounge full of disinterested faces. Principal Monroe barely spares her a second glance, but her mouth is twisted in a wry facsimile of a smile that has Carol feeling like a chastised school girl all over again. "Glad you could join us, Mason."

"Yeah," Eric teases. "Just get here when you can."

Tobin stands up to pull out the chair right next to him while Lilly offers her a wink and a smile across the table. "Saved you a seat."

"While you're up," Ezekiel intones without moving a muscle from his graceful slouch, his intelligent eyes sparkling with superior amusement when the long-legged shop teacher hesitates for the most minute of moments.

"Tobin," Deanna entreats with a roll of her eyes. "Close the door. Please and thank you, so we can _finally_ get this meeting started."

"All right. Okay," Tobin nods. "Anybody want anything while I'm up?"

"My kingdom for a drink," Ezekiel mutters quietly. But not quietly enough, it would seem, because Eugene's piping up with a request of his own.

"I, too, would appreciate a drink. But not of the alluded to alcoholic variety. No. Carbonation will work just fine for my buzz, seeing as I'm still on the clock. Something fizzy."

"We have water and, uh, let's see. Water. Water then?" Tobin offers with a cheerful smirk, sending titters of tired amusement through the overcrowded room.

"I suppose it shall sustain me," Eugene responds blandly.

Deanna interrupts, all business. "All right, people. We have a lot to cover. Carol. Your turn to take minutes since you were late. _Again_."

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**Also? Just a reminder. This story has a non-linear narrative so there's going to be some jumping around, but each chapter is clearly labeled with time frame at the beginning.**

**I'm going to do my best to update once a week, with Saturday/Sunday being the day(s) you'll most likely see that update. **

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	4. It's three in the morning

**Title**: Waltzing's for Dreamers.

**Rating**: M.

**Warnings**: Adult language. Sexual situations. Allusions to past abuse. Angst. That little dramedy I pitched for you turns a little bit dark this chapter.

**Characters/Pairings: **Carol/Daryl. Allusions to Carol/Other. Mentions of Sophia Peletier and Lori Grimes.

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_Nearly two years after Vegas. Rated M for sexual situations, adult language, allusions to past abuse. _

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He's freaking the fuck out. That's the only reasonable way to explain it, not hearing her come down those stairs. Not feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand up and pay attention when she enters the room. _Hell_. Usually, Daryl feels like he's jammed his finger into a live electrical circuit—in a good way—just being near her. Woman makes his blood heat and his synapses sing, but damn if she don't sneak up on him and scare the ever-loving shit out him. Nearly make him fall out of the kitchen chair and into the cold tile floor. "_Fuck_," he hisses. "Scared me, Sweetheart."

"It's three in the morning."

"Is," he answers vaguely and she sighs and unfolds her arms. Pads toward him on pale bare feet that don't even make a sound. She's wearing the shirt he wore to work, the long, faded denim sleeves swallowing up her small hands. But she smells sweet beneath the mixed scents of stale cologne and motor oil and he tells her so as he offers her his hand. "Smell good."

Her smooth fingers slide over his rough palm and she shakes her head, her curls coppery and still damp against her slender shoulders. "Don't."

"Say you smell good?" His eyes flutter shut when she lifts her free hand and tunnels it through the shaggy, disheveled strands of his hair. Only thing that keeps him from purring when her nails scratch lightly at his scalp is knowing she's doing it on purpose. Barreling through his defenses, same way she has since that first morning they woke up in bed together, nearly two years ago.

"Try to distract me."

She's smiling at him when he opens his eyes. Tender and soft. Worry making her bite her bottom lip between her pearly teeth and that just won't do. He nuzzles her ticklish palm until she laughs in that giddy, girlish way she and 'Phia share and pushes back her too-big sleeve to place a lingering kiss at her pulse point. "Taste good, too," he teases.

"Cocoa butter," she reveals, almost shrieking when he snakes his arm around her waist and pulls her into his lap without warning. Lets a calloused palm travel up her thigh and disappear beneath the hem of her borrowed shirt to toy with the lacy edges of her panties. "It's good for stretch marks. I used it with Sophia."

"Doubt you needed it."

Her cheeks hollow and her lips pucker in disbelief. "You kidding? I got as big as a barn."

There's an echo of hurt reflecting back at him from those pretty blue eyes, a measure of insecurity that strikes a chord deep within him and Daryl realizes hiding his own fears from her is only going to feed back into the ugly cycle they're both trying to break here. Swallowing hard, he reclaims his hand and covers the hand that's still combing fondly through his hair. Guides it to his shoulder and the raised, ropy ridges of scar tissue that he's carried with him since he was nothing more than a boy. Gravely admits something they've both danced around every damn day since they met. Nods at the open laptop screen that glows in the darkness, her kid's shy smile giving him the courage to admit his failings. _Shit_. He's just glad she ain't here to hear this. Relieved Lori took her for the night and gave the two of them some privacy. The longer he can shield that little girl from the man he really is inside the better far as he's concerned. "I'm fucked up."

Instantly, her gaze shimmers with sympathy and her hand leaves his shoulder to curl around his neck. "Daryl," she breathes against his parted lips, their foreheads pressed together.

Her lashes flutter damply against his cheeks, like the phantom whisper of butterfly wings, and something in his guarded heart breaks away because he's never had nobody care for him like this. _Ever_. "I'm fucked up, Sweetheart. You can try to deny it, but we both know it's there."

"Daryl, what…"

"Brought this on?" he finishes the question she ain't able to ask. Then he shrugs, acts like he don't know the answer when he does. She does, too. Can see right through him so he sighs. Admits a truth that feels like another piece of his heart's breaking and drifting wide. "Told me there was a baby today. A little piece of you and me."

"A little piece of _both_ of us, Daryl. You _and_ me like you said. You're not the only one scared. If you're fucked up, so am I. So am…"

She whimpers into the fierce kiss he silences her with, holds on to him so tight he swears he feels blood well beneath her nails, and he groans. Guttural and deep and tortured as he pulls back and reads her eyes. Looks for any hint that she's only telling him what he wants to hear. When he finds none, he captures her mouth in another, gentler kiss that's no less passionate and lifts her until she's sitting on the table's edge and their lips release, smooth thighs bracketing his upper body.

"I'm serious, Daryl. I…"

"Shh," he soothes, rubbing his rough palms up and down her legs and leaving gooseflesh in his wake. "Don't have to say it." Funny fuckin' thing is? She don't. Because he seen it in her from the start, way back at the beginning. Damaged people, well. The way he figures it, they sink into each other's gravity. "Know," he tells her with a nip of her lips that has her pulling at him. Raking agitated fingers through his hair while he makes short work of her buttons, maps out the angel's dusting of freckles on her pale skin with his hands as he parts the worn material and works it down her shoulders.

She lets him lay her down. Watches him peel her panties down her trembling legs with eyes that glitter with heat and too many emotions to name.

Daryl rewards her trust by being infinitely gentle with the round softness of her breasts, doing nothing more than placing kitten kisses on the erect nipples. Rubbing the scruff of his unshaken cheek against their aching tenderness as he rests his ear to her pounding heart and lets its cadence fill him up until she's all he knows. All he feels in that moment as her hands cradle him close. And when the moment passes, he looks at her with eyes as dark as a stormy sea. Cups his hands around the narrow breadth of her hips as he gives her a tug, making her curls tumble around her head like a halo.

Her teeth pierce the plush flesh of her lip in breathless anticipation when he urges her legs over his shoulders. Her restless hands bury themselves in his hair and _still_. The first touch of his tongue to her clit makes her shudder. The curl of his fingers coupled with his relentless mouth makes her scream. Makes her back arch clear from the table when she comes the first time.

Daryl makes sure it's not the last.

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	5. I should have told you a long time ago

**Title**: Waltzing's for Dreamers

**Rating**: Hmm. Maybe PG-13?

**Warnings: **Adult language**. **

**Characters/Pairings: **Daryl Dixon, Dwight, Axel, Oscar, Big Tiny, mention of the Morales family, mention of Sherry, Merle Dixon, mention of Carol Peletier and Sophia Peletier, and a couple of other little Easter eggs for those of you paying attention, lol.

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_More than six years after Vegas. Early Summer. _

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"90 degrees in the fuckin' shade out there," Dwight mumbles around his nub of a cigarette.

Beneath the hood of the Morales' Suzuki, Daryl inwardly sneers. _I'll match the sweat rings around your scrawny neck and raise you a couple of stank-ass armpit rings, Asshole. _The words never leave his lips, though. All he gifts the sonofabitch with is a noncommittal grunt. In the interest of keeping things civil, of course. Axel's okay by him, handed over the keys to this Bakersfield shithole like it weren't nothing and gave him and Merle a chance to start over when they'd up and moved themselves clear across the country trying to outrun the demons of both their pasts. The man's harmless, not much left knocking around in his pharmaceutical soaked brain, but his piece of shit cousin is another story altogether, and it's really too bad they have to keep pretending to coexist peacefully because Daryl can't really put his finger on it but something about the guy makes his skin crawl. Oscar's too, apparently.

"Man, put your shirt back on. You lookin' like some starved feral ass cat."

Big Tiny stops swaying with the oscillating fan in the corner of garage only long enough to snicker an agreement. "Oscar ain't wrong."

"Probably is," Axel puts in his two cents, his handlebar mustache twitching with each word. "Starved," he elaborates, as if anybody had any lingering doubts. "Sherry don't like to cook. Can't say as I blame her considerin' she only sees daylight from the inside of that diner. Poor woman," he shakes his head. "Works her pretty little fingers to the bone."

"Might be you should take some pointers from her," Oscar suggests dryly. "That wagon ain't gonna up and fix itself and the way I remember it, those two flower children be thinking they're getting it back first thing tomorrow."

"Might be," Dwight spits as he jerks his arms back through his dingy, oil stained shirt, "you can mind your own goddamn business for once." He skulks back to his designated corner of the shop, grumbling beneath his breath with every step.

"What bug done crawled right up his skinny ass?"

The question is drawled right into his ear, and Daryl nearly jumps out of his skin. Swears and rubs at the bump he can already feel forming on the back of his head. Slams the hood of the Suzuki shut and scowls at his brother, who brandishes a popsicle in his hand like it's some kind of sword. Or a peace offering of sorts. "What the hell?" Daryl growls, snatching the damn thing and ripping the wrapper impatiently. "How 'bout a fuckin' warning next time?"

"Used to be, you didn't need no warning," Merle pointedly reminds him, sucking his own orange popsicle back between his lips as only he could, in a manner bordering on the obscene.

"Got any more of those?" Big Tiny asks longingly.

"Why?" Merle leers with a wink. "Ole Merle makin' you hot?"

Flustered, Big Tiny groans. "You nasty. Anybody ever tell you that?"

"See now," Merle trots out his trademark coat hanger grin. "That's all a matter of opinion. The ladies don't seem to think so. In fact…"

Before he can go any further, Oscar interrupts him, "Little E on deck."

It's not a moment too soon, and Daryl's grateful for the reprieve. His brother might have come a long way, kicked his own drug habit and put his life in some sort of order. All thanks to a little rude awakening and the kid that's joined them, bearing a whole box of sweating popsicles like a gift from the Man Upstairs on this sweltering summer day. But the one thing he ain't cleaned up is his mouth, especially when it comes to women and his supposed prowess with them. And he's far from the only one in this establishment could grow weeds out of his mouth with as filthy as it is, Daryl's own included. He gives Oscar a subtle nod of gratitude and leans against the Samurai's bumper, takes in the scene with an air of wistfulness he couldn't shake if he wanted to, and _damn_. Does he want to.

Big Tiny relinquishes his primo spot in front of the fan to lumber over to arguably one of his favorite people—and not just at the moment. "Got one of those for me, Angel-face?"

"Grape?"

"There any other kind?"

Daryl smirks. Watching when his niece presents the big man with his preferred flavor popsicle and he bows clumsily at the waist in thanks, getting himself a coat hanger grin in response that's undeniably reminiscent of the one his brother wears much more often these days, although the kid's is much harder won. The irony don't escape him. Couldn't if it wanted to. If somebody'd told him have a dozen years ago Merle would find his happiness just as Daryl's own life went to absolute shit, he'd have accused them of bald-face lying. That's what he would have done. He don't begrudge him, though, because God and the Devil both know. If circumstances were different, if he weren't such a no-good fuck-up not worth the heartache he knows he's done caused Carol and her little girl, _well_. He don't resent his brother a moment. Not at all.

"Thank you kindly, Little Miss," Axel charms as he receives his own popsicle. "Need me some of them there boots you're wearing," he says, openly admiring the black combat boots that are about the biggest things on the eleven-year-old's ever-growing feet.

"Them's ass kickers," Merle crows proudly. "For my ass-kicking girl."

Daryl huffs out a laugh and crumples up his wrapper when his brother's version of praise earns him a sassy purple tinged tongue, tosses it in the general vicinity of the trash can.

"Still like 'em," Axel shrugs his skinny shoulders. "Might even go find me some."

Oscar's lips twitch before breaking into a grin full of shark-like teeth. "Man, you couldn't even kick your own ass."

"Might be you're right," Axel agrees amiably. "Just sayin', though. Them's some mighty fine boots."

"Yes, Ma'am, they are," Big Tiny chimes in. Holding out his mammoth paw, he bashfully bargains, "If I show you the car your uncle's been working on, you think there might be another grape popsicle in it for me?"

"All that's left is cherry."

"Cherry just happens to be my second favorite," Big Tiny tells her as his palm all but swallows up her small hand. "It's a '67 Impala. Like the one in that show you like so much with the brothers. He's fixing it up for the coach at the high school. Be glad you haven't met him, Angel-face. Man _loves_ to hear himself talk."

"You look at that," Merle remarks as the unlikely pair disappear into the back of the garage, Oscar and Axel trailing not far behind them. "Girl's got him wrapped around her little finger."

"Ain't the only one," Daryl points out as he bends to retrieve the garbage that'd fallen just short of its mark and drops it into the can. "Reckon you're going to be lost without her when her and her mama move to Jacksonville come the end of July."

"About that, Baby Brother."

Merle scratches absently at the prosthetic on his right arm in a gesture that makes Daryl straighten and study him with a more critical eye. "Merle."

"I should have told you a long time ago."

"Told me what?"

"When that girl leaves? I'm going with her. And I want you to come with me. It's high time, Boy. High time."

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	6. Why are you offering to help me?

**Title**: Waltzing's for Dreamers

**Rating: **I'm going to go with PG-13 again.

**Warnings: **Adult language. Allusions to past abuse.

**Characters/Pairings: **Carol**/**Daryl, Andrea Harrison, Michonne, Lori Grimes, mentions of Carol/Ed, mentions of Sophia Peletier.

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_How it all _really_ began. The next evening after the night before. More simply, two days after they said their drunken 'I do's.' _

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"All I'm saying," Andrea says, holding up a hand to stave off Carol's sputtering attempts at protest, "is that staying married to Mr. Arm Porn here—even if it's only for a few months—might have its merits."

"Mr. Arm Porn, Andrea?" Michonne smirks over the lip of her cocktail, not even bothering to hide her amusement in the least when her dark eyes flit over to Daryl, who's remained largely silent since the initial round of formal introductions. "Really? I'm pretty sure he said his name was Daryl." She outright laughs, full and unashamed, when the man in question tucks his hands beneath his armpits, putting those impressive biceps of his on further display, and regards Andrea with a glint of humor in his cool blue eyes. She watches as he gently nudges her frazzled friend with his elbow and gives her a tiny, half smile before gruffly muttering a statement that wins her over completely and melts more than a few of Lori's reservations, she can tell.

"Can see why you might think of killin' her. Pretty free with her opinions, ain't she?"

Carol bites her lip for a moment before smiling sheepishly at him. "All of them are." She gets a little lost in his eyes. The crinkles at the corners of them that are revealed to her when that boyish smile of his widens just a fraction. The mole at the corner of his mouth. She's fairly certain her lips have made love to that tiny imperfection, even if the details are fuzzy, and her skin still feels the phantom tingle of his scruff all over parts of her that have never been properly appreciated. Memory or imagination, either way the realization makes her flush, and she rubs a restless hand over her nape. Lifts her heavy curls from her neck and lets them fall loosely over her shoulder, averts her gaze and studies the napkin beneath her untouched drink. She doesn't look up again until she realizes Lori's speaking. She's defending their sisterhood in the simplest of terms, voicing their common concern for each other, and any residual annoyance Carol feels melts away with her words.

"We want only the best for Carol because we love her."

"Can respect that," Daryl gruffly acknowledges.

Andrea lifts a cool, appraising brow at the comment. "I'm sensing a _but_."

"Because there _is_ one," he responds. "Where was all that love and concern a couple nights ago? Hmm? You don't know me from the serial killer living down the street."

Lori frowns. "What serial killer?"

"The hypothetical one," Michonne explains.

"Are _you_ a serial killer?" Andrea questions bluntly. "Mr. Arm Porn," she adds belatedly with a wry smirk.

"Andrea!" Carol hisses.

"He says we don't know him," Andrea shrugs nonchalantly. "We don't. I'm just asking the questions any reasonably concerned and loving friend would."

"No," Michonne says. "You're blowing smoke up his ass."

"I would have put it more politely," Lori joins in, "but yeah. You are."

"More politely?" Andrea scoffs. "Are you being for real?"

"They always like this?" Daryl mutters as Andrea and Lori lose themselves in an exchange of words of a more _colorful_ nature and Michonne plays the part of long-suffering referee.

Laughing softly, Carol doesn't even try to sugarcoat it. "Worse."

"Your ex sounds like a real asshole."

She sighs and her nails press crescents into her palms because talking about Ed, even the tiniest mention of him, makes her nerves rattle and her heart threaten to take flight. Every time she thinks about what could have been, how much worse the physical abuse could have escalated past what the verbal already was had she not escaped when she had, she gets a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach and Andrea bringing him up like they were discussing something as frivolous as the weather or what show the four of them were going to see their last night in Vegas before going home, _well_. It's stirred up a whole hornets' nest of emotions Carol would really rather keep under wraps, but the ugly truth has already been let out of the gate so to speak. "Asshole is too kind a word," she finally murmurs.

"Asshole really _is_ too kind of a word," Lori agrees, abandoning her _discussion_ with Andrea to stress to Daryl just how much of a dirtbag Ed Peletier really is.

"Add a mother," Michonne interjects.

"And a fucker," Andrea scowls blackly.

"In front of it," Lori picks up the thread effortlessly, "and it _still_ would be too kind of a word."

Daryl whistles through his teeth and picks up the drink he'd all but drained within five minutes of his arrival and subsequent unwilling inspection and interrogation, rattles the melting ice cubes left behind as he makes a visible effort to keep his reaction low-key.

Still, a muttered curse escapes him and his rough hand hovers hesitantly over hers then dwarfs it, works her fingers free of their fretful work and squeezes in gentle reassurance. "If he manages to get custody of Sophia…" Her voice quavers at the very thought and Michonne stretches her arm across the table to rest a soothing hand on her forearm, Lori and Andrea quick to follow her example. "If he does…"

"He ain't gonna."

"If he does, though," Carol swallows hard over the knot of emotion that's made its unannounced visit in the well of her throat. She feels foolish, allowing this stranger such a naked glimpse of the demons that plague her, but something deep inside her recognizes his understanding for what it is: firsthand experience with the darkest parts of so-called love. "You don't know me. You have no stake in what happens to me or my little girl. Why are you even entertaining Andrea's ridiculous idea? Why are you offering…"

"To help you?" Daryl finishes.

"Why are you offering to help me?"

"Maybe I ain't got nothin' better to do."

"Maybe you're more than a piece of arm candy is more like it," Michonne smiles.

"Maybe," Lori muses.

"Arm _Porn_. Not _candy_," Andrea makes the distinction with a feigned sigh. "Believe it or not, there's a difference."

He withdraws his hand and curls his fingers back around his glass, holds on to it like it's some sort of tether to a fast-fading reality as he clears his throat and addresses the woman that had planted the very first seed without looking up from its murky contents. "These merits. Tell me more about 'em."

Andrea all too eagerly complies. "Well, the court system operates under this antiquated notion that…"

Her reasonable mind won't admit it for many years yet, but that moment? Is the moment Carol's heart started the slow slide into love for one Daryl Dixon.

* * *

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	7. You need to leave Right now

**Title: **Waltzing's for Dreamers

**Rating: **PG

**Warnings: **some language

**Characters/Pairings: **Carol/Daryl, Simon. Mentions of Andrea Harrison, Michonne, Sophia Peletier. Mentions of Ed Peletier and allusions to past Carol/Ed.

* * *

_About a month after Vegas. The first time they see each other again. Aka, the oh shit, we're really doing this moment._

* * *

"You need to leave. Right now," Carol insists, her arms folded across her chest and her expression fierce. Inside though? She's quaking, the years of living underneath Ed's totalitarian thumb hard to completely shake. Especially when confronted with nosy slimeballs like her apartment manager who have no qualms butting into her personal business. Who actually seem to relish in the very act and that's a source of endless frustration for her.

"Carol, you know I'm just looking out for you. When I saw this stray lurking around outside your door, my only concern was your safety."

Anger on Daryl's behalf sparks in Carol's very nerve endings and emboldens her to stand her ground. "Look at him, Simon. Take a good look. Does he look threatening to you?"

Simon's manic gaze darts to the man that has yet to cross her threshold, the man he easily has half a foot's height advantage over, then swings back to her. "Uh, yeah."

Cool, calm, collected—at least to the outward eye, Daryl looks effortlessly imposing, and she sighs. Maybe Simon has a point. Still, she isn't going to be cowed. Not this time. With more confidence than she really feels, she drops a timely reminder. "You know I have Andrea and Michonne both on speed dial."

"Jeez-us," Simon hisses in response. "There you go again. Threatening me with your friends' legal ex-per-teeze. I'm just doing my civic duty, Carol."

She suppresses the urge to groan. "Ms. Mason."

Finally entering her humble abode, his new home, Daryl gruffly corrects her. "Mrs. Dixon. And I'd appreciate it if _you_," he says, staring the smarmy manager down, "stopped harassing me and my wife."

Simon's expression is priceless, his jaw dragging the floor much like she assumes hers is. At least in her head anyway. Outwardly, she manages a satisfied smirk and lifts the delicate chain that's resting between her breasts to flaunt the gold band that dangles from it. "You heard my husband."

"Well, hell's bells. It would seem congratulations are in order. I'm not going to offer them, you understand. My civic duty doesn't extend _that_ far. However…"

Exasperated, Carol interrupts. "Come off of it. Nobody asked you to play the role of my savior. Least of all me."

"Gratitude really _is_ a lost art. Goodnight, Mrs. Dixon. Mr. Dixon." Spitting out the last few words like they leave a bad taste in his mouth, he turns to leave. "Oh, and Mrs. Dixon? Don't forget to drop by my office in the next few days. I'm thinking we need to take another look at your lease."

"Of course. I hope you don't mind if I bring along a friend."

"Sure. Bring whoever you'd like."

Carol pushes her front door closed behind the odious man. Locks it without conscious thought and braces herself against it, and she and Daryl are left alone, _really_ _alone_, for the first time since they woke up in that hotel bed over three weeks ago, her breast cradled in his rough palm and his, _well_. Now's not the time nor the place for that particular stroll down memory lane. Not when he looks so good in his leather vest and faded jeans, those arms that Andrea had been so fixated on in Vegas bare and on display, looking even more impressive in her tiny apartment as they hold an ancient-looking helmet to his chest. Definitely not now when there's neither time nor distance to separate them any longer. That not-so-little realization sinks in and flusters her. So much so she has trouble meeting his eyes for more than a few seconds at a time when she blurts out a handful of hushed words like an awkward teenager finally afforded a face-to-face with her longtime crush instead of her husband of twenty-three days. Or is it twenty-four? She's lost count. The whole situation has been so surreal to this point she doesn't even feel like she's walking on the same plane of existence as everybody else anymore and something tells her this is only the beginning. "I hope he didn't give you too hard a time."

"That Jim Carrey lookin' thing?" Daryl shrugs. "Naw. You?"

"He's been a thorn in my side since Sophia and I moved in," she reveals. "A source of aggravation more than anything. Nothing I can't handle."

"Seen that."

His simple acknowledgment fills her with a sense of shy pride that makes her stomach knot into even more awkward knots. "So."

"So," he echoes.

"You made good time. All the way from Austin, right?"

"Roundabouts, yeah. Made pretty good time," he agrees, his chin dipping in acknowledgement. "Considerin'."

The weary note in that last word makes her blue eyes snap to his face, abandon their detailed study of her socked feet. "Oh?"

"Wreck on the Bama-Georgia line," he explains.

Her brow knits in concern. "A bad one?"

"Reckon so. Seen a couple ambulances heading the other way."

"That's terrible," she tells him. And it is. There's no doubt about _that_. But she finds herself worrying less about some strangers she's never met and more for the one she married in a drunken lapse of judgment, and isn't that just the oddest thing? She doesn't even allow herself to ponder the sheer absurdity of inviting a man she probably hasn't even spoken a hundred words to total to share her home because she always reaches the same conclusion: she's boarded what Michonne likes to call the crazy train and Andrea's taken it upon herself to act as head conductor.

"Must not have been too bad, though."

"Why do you say that?" She only realizes she's frowning at him when he stumbles through a clumsy clarification.

"Just thought, well. Figure they would have airlifted them. You know? If it had. That's all."

Nodding to herself, Carol takes a deep breath before replying. "You're probably right."

"Hope so anyway."

"Me, too," she murmurs. His eyes draw her in. Clear blue and unblinking, they seem to study her. See right through her and reflect all her questions and feelings of anxiety right back at her. "This is awkward."

"Reckon it can't be avoided."

He's sheepish in the admission. The tips of his ears pinking beneath the shag of his dark blond hair and his lips threatening to curl into the tiniest of smiles. In short, he's goddamn adorable and door at her back or not, Carol suddenly feels like a rug has been yanked right out from beneath her and all modes of support have been wrenched away, leaving her staring at a future that's as uncertain, as unpredictable, as a roller coaster's track. "I can't believe I agreed to this."

"Me, neither. Can still change your mind. Won't hold it against you. Won't fight you if you want me to sign on that dotted line."

"I know," she says simply. To all of it. Because somehow, some way, she _does_. He's a man of honor, this one. She won't allow herself to believe any differently because this is the point of no return and she's not the only one that recognizes it. She reads the same truth in his eyes. Taking a couple of steps toward him, she offers him a tremulous smile. "Why don't you put down your things? Stay awhile?"

"You sure?"

"Gotta be."

* * *

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